I had butterflies flying to Zamboanga. It shouldn’t be so
strange to be meeting your father-side family, but it held a 26-year old
strangeness to me. This was a deeply personal trip. Stories upon stories of so
many years ago, shaping the lens with which I perceive my history. The intent
was to layer real memories and grown-up impressions on top of childhood fiction,
and to bridge the past to the present. I worried about being disappointed, too
afraid to expect anything.
It started with a phone call. I called Mamang a few days
before my flight. She would be excited to see me, they said, but I heavily
discounted it. Maybe they were just being nice, easing my worries with kind
words. But upon hearing her voice on the phone, I knew the sentiment to be
genuine, and fought back tears with a steady tone and paced breaths. I haven’t
gone for the trip yet, and I was already on an emotional roller-coaster.
Whatever history there was, we acknowledge and make the active decision to move
forward. And then, it was there again -- That feather-light feeling of
everything falling into place – I was where I needed to be. Doing what I needed to do. Writing chapters of
my story that needed to be written.
Snapshots that barely scratch the surface… but hopefully shares some of the beauty I found there.
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| Sati, Tausug version of Satay |
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| Paying respects with my grandma |
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| Canelar Barter |
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| Fort Pilar |
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| Doves and gunshots |
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| Rio Hondo |
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| Yakan weavings |
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| Climbing higher for the free fall... |
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| Merloquet Falls |
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| Rubber tree |
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| That smile says it all |
Will be back with my little ones...
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